


Palm Tree and Freckles

by dontaskmewhyi



Category: One Piece
Genre: Fluff, Gen, concussion, implied marco ace sabo, it's a lot easier and much funnier for him, sabo making up nicknames because he can't remember names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 23:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12758493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontaskmewhyi/pseuds/dontaskmewhyi
Summary: Sabo doesn't know where he is, or why he's there. He doesn't remember most of yesterday, in fact. But it's not all bad - after all, the house apparently belongs to two very handsome men.





	Palm Tree and Freckles

**Author's Note:**

> For Rookie, who prompted: “I woke up like this- confused, hungry, and a serious case of bed hair.”

Sabo’s head hurts. No, wait, his head feels like a small indie rock band has their bass turned up 200%. Inside his skull. He hears a low noise and realizes that it’s his own voice, but it doesn’t sound right. A few attempted words later, Sabo realizes why; it’s raw, and is similar to the distorted noise an old recording makes. Or maybe a squeaky toy. He plays around with it a bit, more out of surprised amusement, before his head demands to be taken care of.

Rolling out of bed, Sabo stumbles towards his closet, his eyes shut in protest of moving. His hand hits the wall, though he could have sworn that there was a door here. Squinting, he stares at the expanse before him. No door.

Huh.

Still squinting, Sabo looks around. Perhaps his closet moved?

No, wait, perhaps his bed moved?

As he looks around, though, he began to realize that there is something terribly wrong. First, where is his nightstand? Or dresser? For that matter, where did his closet even go?

The doors seem to have completely disappeared.

Were his walls always that odd color of beige?

Rubbing at his eyes, Sabo double-checks that he hasn’t hallucinated the change. Nope, still there. Huh.

Is this even his room?

The thought makes sense, and Sabo feels somewhat relieved that his room hasn’t suddenly changed, ‘till the thought that holy shit he’s in some room he isn’t familiar with hits him with enough force to temporarily displace his headache.

That might explain the lack of clothing on his body.

No, hold on. That’s the opposite of an explanation. Why is he mostly naked, in someone else’s room, with what he can only assume is a terrible hangover?

A hangover sure makes sense.

Groaning, this time with a lot less amusement, Sabo returns to his hunt for clothing. There’s a small dresser in the other corner, so he ambles begrudgingly towards it.

The first drawer has… an odd collection of pineapple related items. Pineapple sunglasses, pineapple bags, pineapple slippers, pineapple gloves - this is a bit of an obsession. Why would anyone own this many pineapple related items?

The second drawer has even more pineapple items.

Thankfully, the third drawer doesn’t. No, it just holds an odd collection of gold jewelry and shiny rocks and pretty gems. They all glitter in the morning light, making Sabo’s eyes ache. He shuts the drawer quickly, cringing at the rattle it makes.

With a resigned sigh, he goes back to rifling through the top drawer. Thankfully, he hadn’t imagined the bright pineapple shirt tucked away in the corner. It’s big and painful to look at, but it’s clothing. At least if he runs into someone, he won’t have to worry too much.

So, of course, the first thing he does as he steps into the hallway is run into someone. Literally, unfortunately, and the burnette does not seem pleased, if his irate scowl is anything to go by. Sabo tries to mumble an apology and dart around him, but the guy stands his ground and grabs Sabo’s arm roughly.

“Who the hell are you?”

Sabo isn’t sure what to say, so he does the only thing he can think of.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks with as much authority as someone wearing only boxers and a bright pineapple patterned shirt can. The effect is entirely ruined by his squeaky voice, but he rolls with it.

The brunette bristles.

“I don’t live in this house, you!” He shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at Sabo. Sabo blinks, not entirely sure how to take such loud and confusing information. It’s only years of faking not being hungover that keep him from cringing at the noise.

“That’s good to know. So who the hell are you, again?” At least his voice doesn’t squeak this time. Sabo studies his shirt, frowning at the gaudy pattern. Geeze, who would wear this? And why was it the only article of clothing in that entire room?

“I the hell am-” the brunette starts, but catches himself. Sabo unsuccessfully hides a snort behind his hand. Who is this kid?

“Ace.” Well, at least he’s got a name now. “And I live here, and you don’t, so who. The hell. Are you?”

Sabo shrugs, wincing at the pain that creates, and scratches at his head. He’s never been hit over the head by a sledgehammer before, but he’s pretty sure this is what it feels like. Where’s the kitchen? He needs water, and some aspirin, and a large cup of coffee.

Oh, coffee. That sounds like heaven.

Trying to shuffle past the kid turns out to be more effort than it is worth because he roughly slams Sabo into the wall. Ouch.

What a violent kid. Did no one teach this child some manners?

Sabo shuts his eyes to try blocking out the pain in his head and ringing in his ears. What had he done last night? He hasn’t been in this bad shape since… since he dove off of a building while running from some very mad gangsters. Or had they been reporters? They have the same cold blood.

The guy’s probably been yelling at him since shoving him against a wall, judging by his red face and the fact that he’s mid sentence. Sabo groans. He doesn’t want to deal with all of this, too, while hungover. He rolls his head back against the wall and manages to make his headache worse.

“ACE! What are you doing!” That’s a new voice.

The owner of the new voice is an older blonde, with hair that is unique in a way that can only be described as the top of a palm tree. Huh.

“Marco! There’s a strange guy in our apartment!” That’s a turn around. Sabo’s pretty sure that the kid was trying to threaten him a moment ago.

“Yes, I know, I’m the one who brought him heeee…” Palm Tree trails off. “Where did you get that?”

That sounds suspiciously dark.

“Found it. Dresser.” It’s awfully hard to talk when an arm is pressed against your chest, Sabo realizes, staring down at the offending limb. Surprisingly, the freckles splattered across the guy’s face are also scattered over his arms. Sabo wonders idly how far they go.

Palm Tree seems to step out of his stupor and hurries towards them, pulling Freckles away from Sabo. Freckles is cute when he’s pouting. Totally not fair.

“How are you feeling?” PalmTree asks, one hand out to keep Freckles back. He’s rather attractive up close. The droopy eyes and birds’-nest hair oddly work for him.

“Death.” That’s the appropriate answer in such situations. Sabo knows, because Koala has taught him many, many times.

Palm Tree, however, makes a sympathetic noise that Sabo is not expecting. Most people roll their eyes. Or shake their head.

Most people do not gently press the back of their hands to his forehead.

Sabo would jump back, if he wasn’t already against a wall. He would also protest, if his voice would work, and would allow more than a few broken syllables at a time. Since neither of these things happen, his reaction seems to be to make a high yelp. He does not, in fact, blush like he is twelve again. It is totally not because Palm Tree is even more attractive when concerned and really, really, really close.

How can someone’s eyes be such a light blue? They’re practically clear. Almost gray, but not quite. Icy blue, maybe? Yeah, like a frozen lake in the middle of winter.

“-ey, hey!” Sabo snaps back to attention, and by snaps, he means he literally snaps back and bangs his head against the wall. His vision swims for a moment.

“Hay is for horses.” Why, oh why, is that the first thing that comes out of his mouth? Curse Hack and his terrible punning. Puns will be the death of him someday. Someday.

“He seems fine to me.” Freckles crosses his arms and huffs. Is he jealous? That’s… really cute. How does someone look cute while being jealous? That’s just unfair.

“That does not sound like someone who is fine, Ace.” Palm Tree seems to be the one in charge. He carefully picks up Sabo, whose protests are ignored.

Sabo is brought to a very comfortable, large couch that may or may not be a color. There’s just nothing he can think of to describe the exact shade of brown-orange-yellow-white that this couch is. The more he stares, the more Sabo is convinced that the color just doesn’t exist.

“Are you hungry?” Sabo’s going to say no, but his stomach answers differently. Odd, he doesn’t feel hungry.

A glass of what looks like water and a couple of pills he’s assuming are painkillers appear before him. He downs them gratefully while Palm Tree goes off to find food. Freckles stares at him from across the room. It’d be unnerving, but Sabo just, doesn’t have any cares anymore.

This is going to make one hell of a story to tell Koala when he gets home.

“You know, you’ve got a serious case of bedhead going on.” Sabo thinks that Freckles might be trying to sound snarky, but he’s obviously amused.

He attempts to comb through it with one hand, but gives up once he realizes keeping his hand above his head is much too much effort. Freckles snorts.

“You just… you just made it worse,” he giggles, then straightens and tries to act all tough again. How endearing.

“Ace, are you hungry too?” Palm Tree calls from the kitchen, and Freckles heads away, towards the smell of food. Sabo honestly hopes that they have coffee. He would kill for some coffee.

The blonde one - Pine Tree? Something with a tree - brings over a tray of what looks like delicious pancakes, with a multitude of toppings. Freckles frowns at Sabo. He stuffs several plain pancake into his mouth, the horror, without breaking eye contact. Sabo ignores him in favor of dousing his pancakes with fruit and syrup and whipped cream. After all, there’s food and coffee and two rather attractive men wandering around him.

Whatever he did last night, it was worth every second.

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I'll write a fic on the HC that none of the asl boys can remember names. Luffy makes up nicknames like there's no tomorrow, Ace just avoids saying names or will constantly ask "who are you again?" which makes it seem like the other person isn't worth remembering (and he's fine with that), and Sabo just confidently calls someone whatever name comes to mind (which also makes it seem like they're not important enough to remember their name, which he is also fine with). Sabo totally owns whatever name he remembers though, and is quite pleased when it's close to the actual name.


End file.
